


Seal the Deal

by debunker



Series: The Binary Code [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Lies, Mighty is the new sexy, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sheriarty - Freeform, Suicide, Vaginal Sex, Violence, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My version of Reichenbach and the events that followed it with a peek into the two years when Sherlock was thought to be dead.</p><p>Drama, porn, angst (especially for John), violence and surprises. Hope I have not missed anything.</p><p>Contains various triggers, though Sheriarty implies no harm. Consider yourself warned.</p><p>All feedback is highly appreciated and stored jealously in the vaults of my heart and my mind palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Moriarty make a deal about Sherlock.

 

It is a grey afternoon and by all appearances it’s going to rain soon. The air is misty.

Mycroft is waiting at the Regent’s Park facing the pond. No special car, no securities around, just a tired elegant man watching the ducks looking for a shelter before the rain hits. This is the condition of their meeting: only two of them.

He cannot hear the sound of cautious steps approaching him but he feels the faintest movement of the air and the familiar stinging smell. A scent as insolent and unpredictable as the man who wears it.

“Got my text, but did not bother to send a reply,” the intonation dances up and down as usual.

“You’re late”. Mycroft does not shift his position.

“Time is such a relative concept, you know”. Moriarty is standing in front of him. His shiny black hair combed back as usual, a dressy black coat covered with the thinnest lay of water spray, feet digging the grass.

“Speak for yourself. Time is quite precious to me so do hurry up, would you.” Mycroft is stretching his neck a little bit irritated.

“Indeed I will. Let’s talk about the deal.” Moriarty is visibly enjoying Mycroft’s pained expression.

“You can’t have him,” Mycroft grips the handle of his umbrella, sticking its end deeper into the ground and leaning forward, his eyes crossed with those of Moriarty’s.

“I will anyway. You know I will,” Moriarty’s all a matter-of-fact-ish smile. “There’s no stopping me”.

“I _can_ stop you,” Mycroft is oozing cool danger, his grey eyes are still and wintery bleak.  

“But you won’t,” Moriarty is shaking his head slowly with exaggeration. “You are not going to disappoint your little brother, are you?” Moriarty is taking a step closer and Mycroft’s breath comes shallow for a second. “He likes to play with me, he does. Finally he’s got a playmate. He never used to before.”

Mycroft is in control of his breath now, even if Moriarty’s scent is still teasing his nostrils. He watches impassibly as Moriarty is taking a walk around him, but the slightest shiver runs down his spine when Moriarty gets behind him. The sweetest pang of animal fear and desire makes him close his eyes for half a second. Suddenly Moriarty’s mouth is near his right ear and the whisper he hears makes his palms sweat.

“I know you’d like to be his playmate, but you see, it’s never gonna happen, sorry to disillusion you.” Moriarty closes the circle standing in front of Mycroft once again, a step closer, almost touching his chin with the tip of his nose.

The first bigger raindrops fall on the sleeve of Mycroft’s chic coat.

“Don’t be selfish, you’re above this,” he almost puts his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder, “let us two plaaaaay. ”

Mycroft is keeping still, trying not to express anything.

“How can I be sure Sherlock will be safe? Didn’t you want to burn him?,” only Mycroft’s eyebrow traits him revealing his concern.

“I did. And I will stick to my promise. I will put him on fire,” Moriarty’s dreamy grin makes Mycroft shudder a little. Images of Sherlock and Moriarty undressing each other cross his mind like a flash.

“But do not worry, he will survive. Even if he could experience _la petite mort_. Indeed, I am actually pretty sure he will.” Moriarty looks at Mycroft meaningfully. Mycroft finds it hard not to blush in a sinful realization that the images still reluctant to leave his imagination excite him. He can feel he is betraying himself to Moriarty’s amusement.

A particularly heavy raindrop falls behind Mycroft’s collar making him shiver with cold. He is fighting the impulse to brush it off with his gloved hand.

“And then you will disappear.” Mycroft makes the smallest gesture with his umbrella as if sweeping away something. Moriarty cannot help but notice the obvious irritation behind the movement. He chuckles and tilts his head to the side.

“Yes, for a year. I will give you this time to try and come up, so we can play as equals when I come back. Maybe.” Moriarty’s lower lip twitches up in disbelief.

“Two years,” Mycroft’s tone is non-negotiable but Moriarty chooses to ignore it.

Moriarty hesitates for a minute and then shrugs his shoulders.

“Well ok, two years and you help me with the records.” Mycroft’s tongue shifts in his mouth trying to swallow back a “no”.

“Deal, then. I will send you a list,” Moriarty claps his hands and brushes past Mycroft who keeps still despite the fact his face is contorted with repressed anger.

It starts raining for good.

He can hear Moriarty stops suddenly.

“And by the way, keep John at bay when I pay a visit to your brother”.

Mycroft clenches his teeth so hard they hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft provides Sherlock with the information he will need to fulfil his mission.

“Where’s John?” Mycroft tries to sound as casual as he can.

“Left for a long weekend with his… what’s her name? Susy or Lucy, not entirely sure. Won a trip to the Cotswolds in a TV quiz.”

“He must be over the moon.” Mycroft’s voice is all about “look, how dull ordinary people are”. As if he were not involved in John’s luck. A fairy godmother with a tie.

“I bet he is.” Sherlock does not really care, maybe just a little but he will not show it in front of Mycroft. “You look more tired than usual.” Sherlock studies his own appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. He is fresh-faced and crisp, the shade of his new pomegranate shirt highlight his icy skin. He is visibly satisfied with his own reflection. 

Mycroft cannot help but notice his narcissistic look as Sherlock turns his head to different angles adjusting his locks.

“Moriarty has turned you into a mass media star.” Mycroft sniffs a little watching his brother’s manipulations. He mentally checks his own neat hairdo.

“He knows your pressure points, he will use it, we can be sure.” Mycroft rubs his wrinkled forehead.

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Sherlock finally finishes his grooming and passes to his pc checking things on his site clearly not interested in Mycroft’s presence.

“That’s why I’ve brought you this.” Mycroft stretches out his hand holding a flash drive waiting for Sherlock to make an eye contact with him.  In an instant Sherlock tenses up like a hound and Mycroft cannot help enjoying having managed to grab his attention at last. Sherlock reaches out to take it but Mycroft closes his fist a little. “To let you learn about his pressure points.” He gives Sherlock a long, meaningful look before letting the flash drive go from his fingers.

“Let me know when you are through with reading.” And Mycroft leaves with no hurry. He does not need to turn around to see Sherlock’s face, a shadow of concern clouding his sculptured forehead.

That same evening Mycroft is back to his mansion. He does not want to switch on the lights, the thoughts in his head are too overwhelming and they require silence and darkness and a good sleep. As he is crossing his dark living room intended to go to bed as soon as possible he does not see, but perceives the figure sitting in the most distant armchair. There can be no mistake: Sherlock’s presence is obvious.

“Finished your study, I suppose,” Mycroft watches Sherlock’s profile turned to the window. He seems to be cut of black paper, a graceful figurine, a chevalier to be sacrificed in this long war. Such a pity.

“I did.” Sherlock does not move, but Mycroft knows he is shaken.

“That’s good. It means now you are more prepared.”

“More prepared to do what? To throw myself on a murderous psycho with a multiple personality? Thank you for providing me with the details of his sexual preferences, now I am fully armoured.”

Mycroft does not reply, he needs more air than that he already has got in his lungs, he needs more courage to play this round right.

“He is obsessed with you, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is thick with emotion.

“Which one, Moriarty or his alter-ego Richard Brook?” Sherlock is more than sarcastic, he is deeply dazed.

“Both,” Mycroft hears him chuckle bitterly, “and this is an advantage. It means he will not hurt you as long as you are with him.”

“Very reassuring, Mycroft, now I can sleep. With Moriarty apparently, or is it Richard Brook, by the way?” Sherlock’s words pierce Mycroft’s heart as thorns; he won’t be able to take them off without bleeding. “I only hope you can sleep too after you have assigned me this mission which I suppose I cannot decline, can I?” Sherlock turns his head to face him, his eyes full of anger and pain cut the darkness. Mycroft is awed by his flashed beauty in that moment.

He does not reply to Sherlock when he brushes past him and leaves the house. The draft of doors being shut makes him shiver. He is trying to convince himself this is for the case. Temporary measures, he tells himself, it is all under control. Isn’t it?

He finally brings himself to go to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, bags under his watery eyes, thin lips clutched together in a difficult resolution. He undresses slowly, each piece of clothes feels like too much. He thinks of when they were kids spending time in the meadows near their parents’ house. He can feel the honey smell of the hot July afternoon back then.

While he takes a shower he pushes his forehead against the tiles and closes his eyes, letting the water run down his head soothing the ache. He wishes he could stay like this forever. He knows it’s time to go out when he almost starts dreaming a messy dream. He closes the water taps and goes out of the shower. He puts on his pajamas feeling incredibly sleepy, only wanting to slip into the bed. But when he does he cannot close his eyes though, the images of Sherlock being hurt, broken, used as a weapon against the power he is not sure to be controlling makes his rest a distant vague idea. But he has to sleep as tomorrow he should wake up and go on as usual, his country cannot take a break from needing him. So he takes a usual pill, then another one. He would take them all, all the pills in the tub but he shakes off his strange thoughts. He has to be stronger than this; he has to be stronger than anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seduces Moriarty.  
> Mycroft can't help listening.

Sherlock has been shopping, got some… accessories.

Now he is in his bathroom. He looks at his own reflection wearing one of the things he’s just got. This and nothing else. He lifts his hand with his cell phone in it and takes a neat shot. Then selects the number from the contact list and attaches the picture to the message: “Come and see how I prove you wrong”. After that he puts his dressing gown on, leaves the bathroom, sits down and waits.

Some time passes before he hears the door of his bedroom squeak slightly.

“Got your pictures. Had to come over and check whether your place was on fire because I could sense smoke. But then I realized that was you who was smoking hot.” Moriarty gives him one of his most outspoken looks.

He is standing in the doorway, incredibly graphic in his raven black suit with a white shirt and a black shiny tie highlighting his wax pale skin. Sherlock has never seen this outfit before. Moriarty looks dandier than ever and extremely calm.

_I will ~~kill~~ have you someday._

He takes several steps towards the bed and at each step Sherlock catches his naked body under the dressing gown going excited against his will.

Moriarty stops in front of the bed with an open suitcase sitting on it. It is full of stuff Sherlock has got. He is looking indifferently at the exposed range and then closes the suitcase with the index finger. The click of the lock makes Sherlock shiver, he is successfully controlling the nervous anticipation but his body can’t help reacting.

“Is this your little getting-to-know-you present? Or are you just showing off?”

“Both.” Sherlock is looking back at him sassy and cool.

“Cocky.” Moriarty licks his lips as if savouring the word.

“By the way, I like this collar on you. But you know what? We don’t need toys to please each other. Where’s the intimacy in that?” Moriarty gives him a longing look. There is no danger in it, Sherlock realizes with surprise, there is a dark, thick, tempered hunger. The kind of desire that hardens jaw muscles and empties the stomach. A tickling turmoil. A coming thunderstorm ready to spill itself.

“So what was my point you wanted to prove wrong?” Moriarty sizes Sherlock up undressing him with his eyes.

“My nickname.” Sherlock stands up and finds himself particularly close to Moriarty stopping just a mere inch from him. Their breaths mix for a second.

Moriarty chuckles softly.

“Sherlock, you never change. Can’t stand being called incompetent in anything.” Moriarty’s lower lip puffs off.

“What am I supposed to do?” Sherlock is stiff, his space eyes are piercing the darkened room.

“Come to terms with what you are,” Moriarty is very calm, almost relaxed, his hands stuck in his pockets, a little bit tired maybe, not hiding anything. “The time has come, Sherlock,” the look in his eyes somewhat scares Sherlock. This is too honest, too obvious to be able to pretend he does not understand what’s happening right now.

He sees Sherlock hesitating and takes a step back turning his body towards Sherlock’s wardrobe. He then stays immovable, only his eyes following Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror. Sherlock takes some steps away from him, then stops, visibly tense as the inner struggle goes on, his jaw gets rigid and his lips turn bleak, he is looking down. There are moments of endless waiting floating in the air, electrifying the space between the two of them. Finally, Sherlock lifts his head to cross eyes with Moriarty in the mirror. Sherlock’s fingertips go numb as he approaches Moriarty who just inhales deeply when Sherlock stops right behind him. Closing his eyes, he leans forward to inhale Moriarty’s smell, his nose touching lightly the back of his head. Moriarty tilts his head back a little and swallows, the movement of his Adam’s apple sending the most feral impulse down Sherlock’s stomach, making him pull closer so that his chest is now pressed fully against Moriarty’s back who is waiting. Sherlock gives in and brushes his lips against Moriarty’s neck at last, the gentlest contact making them both start. Sherlock keeps still for a second and then continues, kissing Jim’s skin with more resolution, a hand crawling tentatively across Moriarty’s stomach brushing over the button of his jacket. Moriarty turns his head to the right touching Sherlock’s cheek bringing his face closer to his own seeking lip contact. Before finding Moriarty’s mouth Sherlock takes a look at their reflection in the mirror, it feels like standing on the edge of a deep well.

“I deduce you’re pleased to see me.” Moriarty whispers teasingly.

“Well, then I could make deductions with you.”

“You can do anything you like with me.” Moriarty’s breath is almost dying as he feels Sherlock’s erection.

“I certainly will.”

He takes a breath and brushes his mouth up Moriarty’s jaw. He is ready to fall down.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft is sitting in his armchair, legs crossed, rigid fingers pressing headphones into his ears. He imagines the apartment at Baker St., then Sherlock’s room. He could watch it through the cameras but the sounds coming from the distance already torment him too much. After Sherlock’s words there is a long pause and he can really hear nothing. Oddly enough, the silence is even more toxic to his nerves. His imagination starts filling the blank space slowly. He closes his eyes to compose himself but it only gets worse as the images he fears and secretly craves invade his mind.     

Longest minutes pass before the silence is broken by the faint steps. Mycroft hears the slightest rustle of the expensive suit being removed, the gentle knock of the dandyish shoes falling on the floor, the bed springs bouncing under the weight of two bodies. He hears smacks and sighs. He hears Sherlock’s breath which suddenly goes heavy and ragged, the pleas to continue, Moriarty’s low whisper which he cannot understand and would be hurt to do so. Torn between wanting to know and dreading the knowledge he cannot bring himself to take off the headphones. His chest aches as he recognizes the disturbing buzz the consulting pair produces, having a hard time telling who makes each particular noise or aroused small laughs. He had to endure this, he tells himself. Does he really?

He decides he’s had enough when the unmistakable wet slap cuts his ear making him freeze to the spot he is sitting on. The series of filthiest noises which follows seems to never end. He can almost see them, two young predators finally on the loose, devouring each other’s flesh. High sobs and low moans fill his head and he can’t help it: he is getting hard. His heart clenches, the blood is pounding in his ears and forehead, his mouth goes dry and he grips the armpad digging into the leather so hard that his knuckles turn white. He shivers uncontrollably at each sound of the two bodies crashing against one another, at each encouraging yell. This is the most painful and exquisite torture he has even been through.

When Sherlock starts to pant at a higher pitch and there are almost no breaks in the stream of noises Moriarty’s voice goes absolutely out of control as he pushes through the last moments separating him from the climax. Mycroft can see the air vibrating around them, moist redistributing between their bodies flexing in a common rhythm, muscles hardening, swollen mouths breathing against one other. When Sherlock exhales “YESSS” Mycroft lip syncs him sitting back, all his body tingling. He is evidently hard and unsettled. He listens to the last fading sounds of the aftersex as the two lovers nestle next to each other; he feels empty and heavy at the same time. Deprived and overwhelmed, he takes off the headphones at last and puts them aside. They rattle against the glass table as Mycroft’s hands are shaking.

It takes him some time to stop them. He feels aged. He feels sore. He feels darkly excited.

For some minutes he looks straight in front of him but cannot see anything, he is so far away from this room.

At last, he moves. He takes the cell phone and dials a number he knows a bit too well.

“I would like to make an appointment, preferably for tonight.”

A gentle voice down the phone asks him to wait a second and this second lasts a century to him. Finally the schedule is checked.

“Is 10 p.m. good for you, sir?”

Mycroft confirms closing his eyes, relieved.

“Thank you, sir. Ms. Adler will be waiting for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty stays the night at Baker St.  
> Meanwhile, Mycroft pays a visit to Irene.  
> Sexual content.

Sherlock is standing naked in the dark room with his phone in hand. The blue light of the display outlines his sharp traits. He casts a glance at the objects ready sitting on the chair in the corner. He sends a short text to Mycroft: “Phase 2” and looks back at Moriarty sleeping in his bed. So innocent, his chest going up and down slowly as he breathes.

Sherlock could kill him now, squeeze his violinist’s fingers around Moriarty’s seductive neck, see him gasping for air, his eyes rolling out, his mouth contorting, his body clenching in spasms. Just like three hours ago when they were rolling on that bed, Sherlock spread under Moriarty who was pushing inside him in hot thrusts, shaking in pre-orgasmic ecstasy. The memory of those moments when he knew he was about to come and nor could neither wanted to resist it vibrate through Sherlock’s body stopping at the tip of his cock squeezing a bead of precum off. His alien eyes get darker as he approaches the bed, then crawls on top of sleeping Moriarty, the long muscles of his back and limbs revealing their animal beauty, the dimples of Venus hollowing down as he leans in kissing Moriarty  who wakes up softly and moves his hands up Sherlock’s torso, caressing his shoulder blades, his ribs to glide down towards his arse. Sherlock covers his face and neck with light kisses feeling with satisfaction the response of the body beneath. His hand trips between them to throw aside the bed sheet letting his own cock brush against Moriarty’s half-hard cock. The skin-to-skin contact makes them both shiver with pleasure. Sherlock licks his palm slowly covering it with his saliva before going down and grabbing them both and stroking fondly. He watches Moriarty’s face change, his eyelids going half-shut, his neck tensing. Sherlock keeps stroking gently kissing Moriarty’s left ear, dragging his mouth down Jim’s neck and chest, finding his nipples at last to tease them with the tip of his tongue, first one, then the other. Moriarty responds with happy chaotic gasps and a firmer grip at Sherlock’s buttocks. When Sherlock bites his right nipple hard tearing it a little Moriarty slaps his arse sending pleasant vibrations down his grundle urging Sherlock to move his hand harder and faster. Moriarty seeks his mouth and as their tongues glide against each other Sherlock paces up even more as he feels Moriarty’s raised knees tremble a little against his hips. He feels the blood rush to his face, his heart start to race. He sucks Moriarty’s tongue making him moan sinfully and giving him last decisive jerks only to follow him in his climax. Jim’s eyes are wet and dark, he inhales and exhales with effort. Sherlock breaks the kiss and they both look down at their cocks spilling themselves over Moriarty’s quivering stomach. Sherlock feels their hot semen over his fingers too and gives their shrinking cocks a teasing caress. He watches as the pool of their mixed sperm spreads over Moriarty’s stomach. He looks up at Moriarty whose eyes are also fixed on the space between them. He shifts his gaze to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Now they feel truly bound, deeper than ever before.

This is exactly what Sherlock needs to continue his mission.

 

When Sherlock’s text arrives Mycroft cannot read it. Firstly, because his cell phone is left in the pocket of his blazer with the rest of the clothes in Irene’s undressing room. Secondly, because in this moment he is spread on Irene’s bed with his wrists and ankles tied to the bed posts.

Finally, at the end of this long day he feels like he is ready to clear his head, let all those thoughts just go for a while.

His skin is tingling pleasantly with anticipation. The reddish shadows cast by several lit candles dance across the room and the shut thick window blinds. He is waiting for Irene to come after she has left him like this for a while. The expectancy makes hairs on his legs stand up a little, his now sleeping cock ready to wake up. When Irene enters the room wearing a purple hooded long cape Mycroft inhales sharply, the promise of pain in her eyes electrifies him.

She approaches him moving her bare feet silently across the lush carpet holding a book and a glass of dark red wine which she puts down on the bedside table.

“Have you been wicked?”.

Mycroft’s voice shakes a little.

“Yes, my lady.”

Irene is looking directly at him, scanning each exposed millimeter of his flesh.

She slowly opens the book with a golden cross on the cover and her gaze pierces Mycroft as her voice starts, soft and dangerous.

“What is it today, Mycroft? Pride?” she pauses, “Greed?”, Mycroft’s forehead is starting to sweat. “Lust?” her eyes flash and Mycroft nods with difficulty.

Irene shuts the book closed and drops it on the floor, the muffled sound making Mycroft shudder. Slowly, like a hunting cat, she gets on top of Mycroft’s, the touch of her inner thighs against his bare skin sends electric impulses along Mycroft’s spine. Irene takes the glass with her blatantly manicured hand and makes Mycroft drink some. It rolls down his throat, hot and dry, pinching his palate, going directly to his head as his stomach is empty. She makes him drink it all, the last drops spilling over Mycroft’s cheek, sliding down his ear and hair. His whole body gets lighter and higher. He does not want to know what she has put in it, he trusts her enough not to ask.

She wipes out the traces of wine from his lips with her thumb. She reaches out and takes a lit candle from the bedside and then presses an index finger across his lips. Mycroft knows the rules and keeps silent.

He controls his voice but his breath is interrupted when the first burning drop of wax makes contact with his chest. It feels hot and cold at the same time and the spot under immediately starts pulsating.

“Look at me,” Irene demands.

Mycroft finds it hard to keep their eye contact when the second bigger drop is spilt. His feet tremble, his fists clench involuntarily, the middle of his back sweats against the expensive bed sheets.

“I will relieve you,” Irene lets another drop fall on Mycroft’s chest dangerously close to his right nipple.

“But you have to confess,” her whisper burns him even more than wax.

Mycroft arches his back and writhes under her light body as she pours down a string of incandescent beads sending Mycroft praying uncontrollably.

He is ready to confess his sins.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is back from the Cotswolds and pretty shocked to meet Sherlock's guest.

It’s Monday morning and John is back from the Cotswolds. The weekend was fine and now he has to come back to work. He goes down the stairs and heads to the kitchen, still quite sleepy, pulling up the zipper of his knitted jacket. He can smell the coffee already, hardly believing the fact Sherlock is up at this hour already and making coffee. Actually, he was quite surprised not to find him still awake last night when he came back. It was past midnight but it was usual of Sherlock to stay up waiting for John on the rare occasion he was away from home. John listened attentively but could hear no sound coming from Sherlock’s room and decided to go to bed as he was tired as hell.

Now he is ready to finally see Sherlock just to say “hi”, this is odd to admit but he missed him a bit. Lucy’s okay but no woman apparently can hold John’s attention the way Sherlock does.

“Nice that you took the trouble to wake up early and make some coffee to celebrate my return,” he starts entering the kitchen, “very considerate of…”, the words die in his mouth as he sees the man sitting in the chair, one leg doubled under him, Sherlock’s mug in his hand.

“YOU?????!!!!!!”, John rushes towards him with his fists clenched but stops some step apart remembering how dangerous Moriarty is.

Moriarty startles and stands up clumsily, a hand stretched out for a hand shake.

“Oh, I’m sorry we have not been introduced,” he smiles shyly and takes a step towards John who jumps back yelling.

“SHERLOCK!!!!!”, John shoots out his arm, “don’t you dare come closer.” He finds it ridiculous to hope Moriarty will ever obey but surprisingly he does, stopping where he stands.

Barefoot Sherlock appears in the doorway wearing his dressing gown with apparently nothing under only to witness an awkward scene: Watson visibly shocked struggling the impulse to run away from Moriarty who is standing in the middle of the kitchen with Sherlock’s mug in his hand. He is dressed in a casual pair of jeans, a tshirt with a cardigan and pretty worn Converse sneakers. His hair is a mad mess and his Bambi eyes gleam joyfully as he sees Sherlock.

“Morning,” he rises the mug a little, “didn’t want to wake you up, had to get ready for today’s audition”.

John’s eyes pop out as he stares in disbelief at Sherlock and back at Moriarty and then again back at Sherlock.

“What the hell…” he starts losing his temper.

“You better tell him, Sherlock,” Moriarty gives him a little bashful smile and the realization strikes Watson to the point he has to sit down as his knees betray him.

Sherlock remains immovable really not knowing how to put the situation.

“You’re… going out… together…” John mumbles leaning against the back of his chair starting to laugh silently in shock.

Sherlock gives him a meaningful look which can only be read as “shut up, not now” but John is already over the edge.

“Well, yes,” Moriarty stares at them not knowing what to do next, “we met at the pool”.

“At the pool?” John starts laughing harder.

“Yes, I was taking some swimming lessons and Sherlock also was there. I spotted him and left him my number,” he looks lovingly at Sherlock, “I did not really believe he would have called,” Sherlock inhales sharply, “but he did,” Moriarty is beaming.

“You did,” John doubles over with laughter, “you did call him, Sherlock”, he laughs hysterically, “you DID call him after his attempt to kills us!” John yells suddenly.

Sherlock is making weird facial expressions to make him shut up.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Moriarty looks puzzled and a little bit frightened and clearly wanting to leave. “Anyway, I have to rush now,” he gives Sherlock an apologetic look, “I have this audition for a commercial in two hours”.

“An audition?” John can’t handle his nervous breakdown and stop laughing.

“Mmm, yes, I’m an actor,” Moriarty informs him with certain pride.

“An actor???” John’s eyes get teary with helpless laughter, “AN ACTOR!!!” he turns to Sherlock.

“Ohhh, Sherlock, this is the most stupid joke you could have played on me,” he points a finger at Sherlock, his voice suddenly goes very low and angry, the hysterical high pitch is gone, “hiring Moriarty’s double to prank me after three days of my highly deserved rest.”

“I, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Jim looks sincerely puzzled. “Who is Moriarty?” he looks questioningly at Sherlock who is still immovable as he clearly does not know how to act and chooses not to do anything to limit the damage. “My name is Rich. Richard Brook.”

“Very good, dude, you’re good,” Watson stands up and approaches him to pat him on the shoulder approvingly. Moriarty is staring at him alarmed. Watson gets it and steps back.

“Okay,” Moriarty puts the mug down on the table and approaches Sherlock to kiss him lightly on the lips and this is what makes Watson’s jaw drop. Moriarty then grabs his backpack and heads towards the door. “See you later,” he looks at Sherlock waiting for some tender reaction and gets visibly disappointed and a little bit sad getting none. “Bye.”

As he leaves Watson lifts his hands above his head to applaud blatantly and starts laughing again, visibly relieved.

“Oh, Sherlock, you have to be careful with such tricks, I almost had a heart attack.”

Sherlock waits a little trying to compose himself before opening his mouth.

“John, listen… I need to tell you something,” John still keeps laughing but ceases eventually as he watches Sherlock’s face growing dark with concern, “try to understand.”

And John understands he does not want to know what Sherlock has to say but can do nothing to stop him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty calls Mycroft to check up on his plan.

When the office phone rings Mycroft already knows who’s calling. He picks up the receiver taking his time or maybe trying to delay the talk which is not going to be pleasant. He says nothing but his breath is enough for the caller to start talking.

“So, you’ve instructed him well, big brother.” Moriarty’s mocking voice is piercing his brain. Mycroft feels a little bit sleepy as he has not got enough rest after the night at Irene’s. But he is much more relaxed now.

“I have provided him with the information you needed me to.”

Sherlock thrown as a decoy into Moriarty’s jaws. Sherlock thinking Moriarty has a double personality and there is only one way to keep it under control and eventually destroy him.

“And he has put it to use. I suppose you’ve _heard_ about it.”

Mycroft swallows hard recollecting the noises of Sherlock and Moriarty making out.

“Told him he has to fuck me hard to keep Moriarty at bay and let Richard Brook out, didn’t you?”

Moriarty seems to be talking to himself, actually he knows the answers and needs no confirmation of Mycroft’s.

“Well, I can tell you, he has perfectly understood that, you know. Got it that Richard Brook only comes out when satisfied. Sex makes emerge a better side of a person, you know.”

“Doesn’t look like it did it to you.” Mycroft hears Moriarty suppress a laughter.

“Oh, I’ll be such a good boy. Sherlock will _love_ keeping me close. Sex makes him relaxed. You should try sometime. Or have you already, naughty boy? Irene told me you did.”

Bitch. Mycroft narrows his eyes already knowing how to make her pay for that.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll treat Sherlock right as soon as he keeps fucking me for good. Poor heart, I thought he would have to pretend he liked it, to act as feeling pleasure. But you know what, he actually _did_ like it. Asked for more.”

Mycroft feels a cold pang of jealousy. He smooths down his saphire blue silk tie to distract himself from the obscene images.

“Be so kind to keep the details to yourself.”

“Oh, don’t play this game. You already know everything. But let me tell you, he was like _wax_ in my hands, the more I was touching him the hotter and more compliant he was getting. I could make him an addict. Anyway, he’s far more sane than you. Speaking about _wax_. ”

Mycroft feels his burn marks under his chic attire tingle starting to heal and the memories of the last night, but his body satiated and pleasantly tired calms his mind too, helping him control himself while talking to Moriarty.

“You told him to put my clothes next to the bed so that when I wake up as Rich I already have my outfit. Nice touch. And by the way, I met John. We could be friends with time I suppose.”

“Keep him out of this, he is not part of the plan.”

Mycroft feels strangely concerned about John. Or is it about Sherlock being concerned about John?

“Oh, you think this is _your_ plan. But you see, it’s _my_ plan. Sorry to disappoint you.” Moriarty tuts.

“We have the deal.”

Mycroft has a disgusting feeling of something slipping out of his control. He hates it.

“Yes, which is I do not kill Sherlock - even if it is tempting, you know, now having an access to his body - if I can play with him and you do not interfere.  Nothing was said about the annoying doctor.”

“You can’t involve him.”

Mycroft thinks this could be less of a trouble to simply eliminate Moriarty. But then the consequences would be unpredictable.

“I can do whatever I like. But enough for now. I’ll keep you informed. I guess, you will keep yourself informed but it’s such a pleasure to be able to tell you how fine your brother is. Will stay in taa-ch.”

Mycroft hangs up. He needs a drink and a pain killer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts John about Moriarty/Richard Brook situation.

“John, some tea?” Sherlock avoids Watson’s gaze as he put the kettle to boil.

“Sherlock, I don’t want anything but your explanation. What was that? Where did you find this bloke? He looks exactly like Moriarty.”

“Well, John, the fact is,” Sherlock pauses plucking at the tea spoon in his hand. “The fact is,” he finally brings himself to looking into John’s concerned intelligent eyes. “Moriarty never existed.”

John’s mouth opens and closes in an odd grimace, his eyebrows go up and down and up again. He struggles to process the phrase, shaking his head.

“What do you mean: never existed?” he looks into Sherlock’s eyes intensely. Sherlock’s visibly stirred.

“He is actually an actor. Richard Brook. I paid him.” Watson jumps up and makes a circle around his chair, almost flipping it.

“WHAT?????!!!!” John turns abruptly pointing his index finger at Sherlock who struggles to look him in the eye with a pained expression on his face. “Sherlock, what???!!!”

“John,” Sherlock puts his palm forward taking a step towards Watson who is waiting dangerously looking at Sherlock from under his eyebrows, his nostrils flaring with rage.

“He helped me look good with all those crimes I was supposed to solve. It was just a temporary measure John, I was short of money and I needed some attention to get more clients and to eventually get rid of Moriarty as a figure once I get famous enough. He, he was and well is my boyfriend.” Sherlock rattles at a speed exceeding the fastest one he is capable of.

“So, you’re gay?” Watson exhales and sits down heavily.

“John, that’s not the point. I’m sorry I have involved you but you know I would never ever hurt you I just needed to work. And he did too. For him that was like a dream role he never landed for now.”

“But he told me he did not know who Moriarty was.”

“Well, I’ve changed his memory a bit. A lot actually using some substances. Now he only remembers just a few facts about us and that’s it. He’s a good person, he did not mean any harm.”

“So you have used your boyfriend to play your dirty tricks and now you’re drugging him to maintain his dementia.”

Sherlock exhales deeply and adjusts the belt of his dressing gown.

“John, I once told you I’m not a hero.”

The look Watson gives him is unbearable. There is anger, pain, disappointment. The bitterness of it makes Sherlock’s heart fall. There is a long silence only interrupted by the kettle clack.

“So, all your deductions were false? The whole thing was staged then?” John is staring at his shoes. He cannot meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“Not everything, John,” Sherlock is trying to sound as soothing as he can, “only the part that concerned Moriarty.”

“But my feelings were real.” John kicks the chair leg. “I believed in all that.”

“That was part of the game.” Sherlock looks like he’d like to disappear if he could.

“I… I have to think. I need to…” John makes a gesture indicating the door. “Need to go now. Have to work.” His voice almost dies. He stands up not looking into Sherlock’s direction and walks slowly towards the door, his shoulders down. When the door closes behind him Sherlock inhales sharply.

“This is for your good, John,” he mutters to himself, “this is for your good.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Richard Brook spend an evening together. To Sherlock's amusement it feels surprisingly ok.

John only came home to change his clothes and muttered something about staying at Lucy’s for tonight. Sherlock only nodded as to say he understands and made no attempt to stop him. He knew better than to start talking to him again. Clearly, Watson still does not feel like doing conversation.

Sherlock stays for a while in his armchair in front of the fireplace staring at the fire. This is a cool spring evening and London sky is of a peculiar grey-lilac shade. He is calculating his next steps. This is going to be a hard and long game but they have to win.

He has got a voice message from Richard who sounded really joyful - he has to be cautious not to call him Moriarty – that he was on his way to Sherlock’s and would get some Chinese take away. So this is how it works, Sherlock thinks, that’s what ordinary people do. A relationship. Sleeping together, eating together, discussing the news. Richard was clearly impatient to tell Sherlock something, job related as Sherlock could suppose. Boring. But this is for the case, the mission this time. A domesticated psycho turned into a kitten. Sherlock is almost tempted to smoke a cigarette. He imagines the touch of the thin paper against his lips, a deep drag, pleasure flooding over his stressed system. He had not had a patch in several days.

When the doorbell rings the first moment Sherlock waits for someone else to open the door. Mrs. Hudson, John. Then he remembers Mrs. Hudson is out of town for a couple of weeks. And John. John is not there tonight. And this should be Mo… Richard.

Indeed, it is him. Loaded with Chinese food, beaming, a little tired but still quite fresh.

“Chinese delivery!” he lifts his hands holding plastic bags and smiles happily at Sherlock who promptly kisses him. That’s what boyfriends do.

He walks past Sherlock into the kitchen and starts taking the containers out of the bags.

“I’m so hungry, Sherlock,” Sherlock smells the spicy food and understands he is quite hungry too, “I think I’ve got the role today in that commercial.” Sherlock pulls the most interested look he is capable of.

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaims and gets closer to Richard putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. This feels awkward.

“This is for the kids community center and the whole idea is about circus.” Circus, Sherlock thinks, this is exactly what it is. A tamed animal and a tamer. “I’ve done my best and they said I have a comic instinct. Honey, you should see me as a clown!”. A clown, right.

“Oh, I’m so happy,” Sherlock is trying really hard, “love.” The last word comes out as a breath out.

“John’s not around?” Richard is washing his hands and getting forks and knives. Sherlock shakes his head, he is not going to explain. “Then why don’t we eat in front of the fireplace?”

“Great.” Sherlock helps him bring food over there. Surprisingly, Richard is settling himself on the floor, with his legs crossed. Sherlock looks down on him. This is Moriarty. Moriarty eating noodles on the floor by his side. Seems so normal, dull, like a teenager, hair up, his cardigan sleeves rolled up. How could one have such a boring side while the other one is so outrageously crazy?

When they finish the dinner it’s almost twilight, the last rays of sun are fading out. Richard is taking coal tongs to stir fire a little. He looks back at Sherlock and pats his hand on the floor beside him.

“Come here.” His voice is soft, the Irish accent makes it sound somewhat weird, Sherlock thinks, there is no other voice like that. What made him like that? How can a personality just split?

After a brief hesitation Sherlock lowers himself on the floor to sit shoulder to shoulder with his lover. Moriarty wraps his arms around him and puts his forehead against his cheek. Sherlock kisses his head lightly. He smells Richard’s hair, his shampoo, London dust, something warm and sweet. The reflections of fire on their skin.

“How was your day?” Richard’s muffled question echoes deep inside Sherlock. He would never admit that such stupid things could give him pleasure. That such an ordinary evening could be nice.

“That was fine.” He says and caresses a little Richard’s arm.                                                           

They stay like that for some time. Sherlock tells himself he only does it because he has to complete his mission. But he can’t lie that when they start kissing it feels good. And when later Richard goes to take a shower Sherlock follows him full of anticipation.

“This is just a physical reaction,” he tells himself when he watches Richard undress and the sight of his firm arse and shapely legs makes him feel the urge to touch him right away, “this is just biology.”

He keeps throwing at himself logical explanations while undressing himself. He tells himself this is for the case, this is because Mycroft has the plan when water pours down their naked bodies pressed together in a desperate need to connect. He tells himself he has to play the part as his shoulder blades push against the tiles. He convinces himself sex is a crucial part of the scheme as Richard's mouth traces its path down his neck, chest, stomach, down, down… But when his cock slips between Moriarty’s lips Sherlock does not need to remind himself to act because it truly feels amazing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock talk about the plan.

Mycroft is pouring some cognac into two glasses and hands one to Sherlock who does nothing to take it so that Mycroft has to put it down on the table. Sherlock draws a finger along the rim of the glass and licks it sharply only to pucker up. Mycroft takes a sip watching coldly as Sherlock cleans his fingers with a handkerchief.  

“Do you keep… entertaining our friend?” Mycroft puts a nasty meaning in his words and this earns him an absolutely killing glance from Sherlock.

“Is he your friend?” Sherlock is eager to play the “first to look away loses” game.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft takes another sip and makes the alcohol roll over his tongue down his throat, “he is your boyfriend. As soon as I can see.” The cognac warms him up but the area around his heart is still cold.

“If you called me to make me say things you already know then I suggest we finish the conversation right now as it is pointless.”

“What did you tell John?”

“Everything according to the plan.” Sherlock puts the collar of his coat up and buries his chin in it.

“I am sorry you have to lie to John.” Mycroft’s voice softens a bit.

“Is that your only concern?” Sherlock looks at him, daring and hurt at the same time.

_Don’t play this game, Sherlock, I know you enjoy sex with Moriarty._

Mycroft steps up towards Sherlock sank in a big armchair in his office and pushes away Sherlock’s scarf exposing a fresh lovebite on his neck. For a second he is tempted to brush his fingertips over the swollen purple spot, to put his lips on it to suck harder. He can see Moriarty doing this as he takes Sherlock, hard and hungry. He banishes these thoughts and turns away to hide his eyes. He is afraid Sherlock might deduce him. Sherlock flings his coat closed and stands up abruptly.

“He should truly get suicidal, Sherlock, he is already inclined”, Mycroft’s voice is hoarse with worry, “it should be smooth, it should be logical. Try your best to drive him up the wall of despair, will you? If Richard Brook kills himself Moriarty dies as well.”

Sherlock stays immovable for a second struggling the urge to beat Mycroft up. Or to get high. Or to smoke. Or to fuck Moriarty. Finally, he brings himself to head towards the exit.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s words make him pause in the doorway, “how does it feel playing with a human heart?”

Mycroft does not turn around but he can clearly feel a wave of cold hatred crossing the room like a blast of wind.

Sherlock stiffens in his back, his eyes narrow, he swallows slowly but the answer dies in his mouth which suddenly goes dry. Mycroft smiles to himself with grim satisfaction but there is sadness in his wintery eyes.

He wrinkles his forehead when the door shuts that hard that the window glasses vibrate for several seconds.

He thinks this game might be not what he expected it to turn out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John still does not talk to Sherlock but he has to talk to Richard as he's around the flat on a regular basis now.  
> Sherlock goes out with Richard because that's what boyfriends do.  
> Moriarty needs something from Irene.

Watson is pretty pissed to see Richard making himself a cup of morning tea in his kitchen. Watson has the slightest feeling he has moved in with Sherlock even if it has not been announced. Besides, that hardly could have been announced as he still does not talk to Sherlock. It costs him sleepless nights, bags under his eyes and a total distraction at the workplace. He needs their dialogues, jokes, he needs a case even more than Sherlock does. But apparently Sherlock is not dying to have one. Looks like he just stares at the wall in his absence or makes out with his boyfriend.

A couple of days ago the pretty outraged Mrs. Hudson complained about walking into Sherlock and Richard almost undressing each other in the living room. John cannot really get over this fact either.

“You know, John,” she whispered grabbing his arm in the corridor, “I understand this is the initial phase when you know, you just can’t keep your hands off each other but really they should bring the thing to the bedroom. If they mess up your favourite armchair I swear I’ll send Sherlock a double dry-clean bill.”

His armchair! Well, technically, this is Mrs. Hudson’s armchair but this is _his_ armchair.

And now here he is. Barefoot Richard Brook aka Moriarty wearing Sherlock’s pajama pants dragging on the floor with apparently nothing under. Watson watches his back and hips silently as Richard makes himself a cup of tea and grabs some biscuits clearly unaware of Watson’s presence. When he turns around John can’t help but cast a glance on the front seam of his attire only to notice the outline of his cock hanging freely. Oh, come on. For the exception of a soft hardly noticeable belly Richard is slim. His skin is smooth and touchable. Little hair on the chest, just the right amount on the arms and a trail going down his, actually, Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. Now that’s what Sherlock likes. Watson remembers his dandyish looks as Moriarty and subconsciously compares Richard’s body to his own. Different, very different. Not so much the shape even if this too, but the general feel. Watson suddenly realizes there must be a ten-year difference between them.

“Dr. Watson, hi!” Richard is all smiles. Watson tries to compose himself and take his eyes off Sherlock’s lover's exposed body.

“Morning.” He moves carefully not to touch Richard accidentally as he is intended to have some coffee and needs to get to the counter.

“Did not know you’ve stayed the night.” He tries to sound as casual as he can.

“Well,” Richard smiles shyly, “I do now regularly.”

John is struggling not to yell something like “I pretty much fucking noticed!”

“Oh, do you,” he finally brings himself to turn around and look him in the eye. He will be polite, he’ll try to. “So, the things are going on then?”

“Between me and Sherlock, you mean,” Richard puts a whole biscuit in his mouth and munches enthusiastically. Watson is watching him swallow and trying very hard to stop his imagination from flying up. “Yes, this is getting intense. I would have never dreamt of, you know…” Richard takes a gulp from his mug and looks inside himself for a moment.

“I mean isn’t this incredible how Sherlock needs ordinary people like us around.”

Watson’s face darkens in an instant. He’d like Richard to shut up at once. But looks like he would not.

“Such a brilliant, handsome, outstanding man who picks up really unremarkable people.”

Watson hates to admit he thought about it too. Why would he need them?

“I feel so blessed to be with him.” The teenage-in-love shining around him is unbearable.

“You know he can be a true pain in the ass.” Richard’s expression suddenly goes slightly obscene and Watson shakes his head a little dismissing the unintended pun realization. He can’t help imagining Sherlock fucking Moriarty for a second. “I mean, he is not easy to get along. I have known him for a while now.”

“But the reward is so great that I’m willing to take the risk.” John suddenly sees a strange expression in Richard’s eyes. This is Moriarty, he tells himself, he was Moriarty, there must be something mad about him.

“Well, then good luck with this.” Watson wants to go away, he feels like he’s been stung by a poisonous animal, there is an unpleasant stir in his soul. Ordinary people like him are of no interest for Sherlock.

“Dr. Watson, excuse my question. But have you and Sherlock ever… you know.” Watson gives him a look that could burn him on the spot.

“Okay, I suppose that’s a no.” Richard looks away a little confused regretting his question maybe and takes a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

Watson grabs his tea and walks out of the kitchen mumbling something about work. Every morning feels like Monday now.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock is strangely melancholic watching St. Paul from the South Bank waiting for Richard to reach him after work for a Friday drink. Sherlock has not been taking any particular case for a while now, ignoring Lestrade’s messages and calls. The current case is absorbing him entirely. He could have never told it would cost him that much of an effort.

He feels the familiar scent before he even hears the voice and the spring mild air makes it feel almost sweet.

“Afternoon.” He turns to find Richard standing right behind him, hair messier than ever, a large grin and a heart-shaped red balloon in his hand. Must have got it from the merchants nearby. How stupid, how childish, how impropriate. How very touching.

“Oh, you’re not seriously thinking I’m going to walk holding this, are you?” Sherlock darts him a grumpy glance.

“Why not?” Richard is clearly enjoying himself getting a little at Sherlock’s nerves handing him the balloon. “Adds some colour.” He studies Sherlock’s total black outfit. The only thing that stands out is his blue scarf. He gets closer to kiss Sherlock who lets him still irritated. He leans down to whisper into Richard’s ear. “But I’ll make you pay for this.” Richard slips his hand into Sherlock’s pocket to touch his hip through the cloth. “Any time you like.” Sherlock can’t but register that the closeness of Richard makes him want to undress him every single time.

“Is this your gun?” Richard pulls him closer and Sherlock feels his hand tripping around Sherlock’s waist pulping slightly the back of his trousers, fingers almost slipping to squeeze his arse. Their eyes cross and there is a silent exchange of “I want you” glances.

“Yes.” Sherlock watches Richard close the distance between them completely.

“Would you teach me how to fire it?” Sherlock thinks this is weird that every phrase now sounds like a veiled sexual hint.

“Yes.” Sherlock exhales as he feels his starting erection. Oh, not now, not in the middle of all those people strolling by.

“Bang bang.” Richard whispers in his ear making Sherlock startle with delight.

This is insane. How can it be that he is that attracted to him? How can he admit it to himself he does not need to pretend he likes the part of his boyfriend? Hanging out like this. What would Mycroft say?

This is Moriarty, he reminds himself, Moriarty I have to eliminate. Get him out of the scene. Destroy him. The electricity between them is undeniable. His eyes trail the curves of Moriarty’s neck. The piece where his neck connects to his shoulder is exposed and the tight muscles there make Sherlock feel a little bit stirred, gazing longer than enough at his so-called boyfriend. He sees him shiver a little in his light weighted parka with the uncovered neck. Sherlock takes off his scarf and wraps it around Richard’s neck. He watches a thick vein on it pulsating quickly. This is Moriarty’s heart beating. It won’t be long before it stops.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The number is hidden but Irene knows she better answer her phone. Not many people have this number of hers and only one usually grants her with an anonymous call.

“I need you to do something for me.” She recognizes the voice at once and tenses up. There is no way she can say no but she still might try. “This is about a certain detective we both know.”

“What would I have for this?” She is used to playing these games even if with Moriarty you never know where it leads.

“Mmmm,” he sounds like he is trying to decide, “let’s say first of all you will still be able to talk and walk.” Irene swallows. “And I could give you a key to get some profit from the detective’s brother. Whom I know you see from time to time.”

“I’m listening.” Irene knows Moriarty does not believe in her playing cool but she still has to try.

“Good girl. Do listen carefully then.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly comes to see Sherlock.  
> Watson learns something about Richard/Moriarty that he can't just get over. He has to confront Sherlock about it and it will have consequences.
> 
> Explicit sexual content. Angst. A little bit shocking maybe, sad for sure.

“Come, come, he’s alone now,” Mrs. Hudson leads her into the living room and leaves her there with a sigh. She would have preferred having Molly around.

Molly finds Sherlock absorbed in reading something at his computer. He looks very sharp, very neat as usual but there is a new quality to him, a new strange light Molly cannot decipher. Then, deductions are not her field. She adjusts her hair a bit, a subconscious gesture, and steps up.

“Sherlock, hi!”

He lifts his head and gives her his most charming smile.

“Molly, thanks for coming.” She can’t help feeling like a schoolgirl who got an A grade from her favourite professor.

“I’ve brought you what you’ve asked for.” She hands him a plastic bag with substances in it. He grasps it swiftly and hides it in some of his drawers.

“I have not seen you much around lately.” She is trying not to sound needy but actually fails. She would slap herself to stop it but keeps staring at Sherlock who is just dazzlingly handsome. There is some languid sparkle in his eye now. Molly suddenly realizes he knows it.

“I’m working on a case.” Sherlock is not really inclined to talk about it, it seems.

“If you need my help…” she nods as to say “you only need to ask.”

“Thank you, Molly, you’re already helping.” He makes a slight gesture towards the desk he’s put the bag into.

“Good.” She knows she has to go as Sherlock is clearly impatient to come back to work. She is ready to say her reluctant goodbye when Sherlock’s phone rings reading “Richard” and she clearly sees on the display a picture of Sherlock with a dark-haired man kissing him on the cheek. Sherlock is smiling happily in the camera.

“Yes,” Sherlock is cheerful and he sounds… in love Molly would bet. This hurts worse than she could have imagined.

“Great!” Sherlock walks around the room hunting for something. “I’ll turn it on immediately.” He finally finds the remote and turns the tv on only to see Richard acting in the advertisement of the community centre raising funds for children’s hospital. He is surrounded by laughing kids distributing them gifts and balloons all made up like a clown. “Smile is the best gift. Donate it now.”

At the end he waves into the camera and the bunch of children do the same.

Molly looks surprised at the screen.

“But this is… Jim.” She wrinkles her forehead and waits for an explanation from Sherlock who is lovingly reassuring his boyfriend on the phone that he was good.

“See you later. Yes, me too.” Sherlock finally hangs up and turns to Molly.

“Jim. We used to go out…” Molly chuckles to herself. “And now you do.” She gives him a tender look as she has realized what this new feel about Sherlock is.

“Okay. Good. Good for you.”

“Molly…”

She shakes her head to stop him from talking and lies her thin finger across his lips in a momentarily caress. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders with a guilty look.

She gives him a sad smile. They don’t need words.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Watson is just worn out. He has taken a shower (Richard’s toothbrush is now placed in front of the mirror) and is ready to sleep. But first he needs to relax. So beer and porn. Lucy has not been very inclined to let him stay the night in these last days, must have got his gloomy mood and did not like it. Ok, that’s her right. And Watson’s right is to relieve his tension. He’s got his laptop and the usual site. The usual preferences: big tits, blondes. He chooses a video and clicks play. What he sees though is quite different from what he is used to.

There is naked Mycroft spread on the bed with his legs and arms tied to the angles, his face down. Irene Adler wearing nothing but a black mask knelt between behind him slowly inserts a huge dildo in his arse. Mycroft’s moans make John sweat and freeze with his beer in hand.

“Do you feel it, Mycroft?” Irene licks her lips slowly. Watson can’t help but notice her nipples go hard as she moves her hand. She clearly is turned on by this play.

“Yess.” Mycroft exhales panting against the cushions. John feels uncomfortable but can’t bring himself to close the laptop. Whoever hacked his pc did this on purpose.

“Do you like it?” Irene shifts the dildo from side to side opening Mycroft a little more.

He groans and the sounds he produces are borderline between torture sighs and ecstasy. Watson keeps looking tantalized.

“I can’t hear you,” Irene grabs Mycroft’s hair and pulls his head backwards ready to tear out a clump, “say that again.”

“Yes, my lady,” John could bet he can hear tears in Mycroft’s voice. He is not sure this is not part of the game though.

Irene lets his hair free and Mycroft buries his face in the pillows.

“Whose cock is this, Mycroft?” she pushes harder inside and Watson sees that Mycroft shivers and tries to lift his head up but can’t. He can’t reply. “Who’s fucking you, Mycroft? Who’s sticking this hard cock up your dirty arse.”

“Moriarty.” Mycroft’s muffled voice is trembling with need.

Watson feels like an electric discharge crosses his body. He shuts his laptop closed and pushes it aside shocked.

Moriarty??? Mycroft naming Moriarty during sex. Moriarty who is not real, according to Sherlock’s words. But then why Mycroft would name him? Too much of a stretch to think Mycroft liked his role so much he still has fantasies about him. If Sherlock’s telling him the truth then how could Molly go out with Moriarty if Sherlock says they’ve only met at the pool? What if Sherlock’s memories were modified too? What if Mycroft did it? What… what if Sherlock lied to John? There is a storm of confused emotions overwhelming Watson. He needs to talk to Sherlock, needs to clear this up. Now.

He runs down the stairs and pounds at the door of Sherlock’s bedroom. That same moment he realizes he can hear muffled sounds of making out coming from the room. Oh, no. He can hear Sherlock asking “Is this ok?” and a heavy Richard’s (Moriarty’s?) breath and then there are undisguised sighs and the bed starts squeaking.

He needs to talk to Sherlock right now, this cannot be delayed.

“Sherlock,” he calls trying to act as nothing was happening, “we need to talk!”

“Go away, John,” Sherlock’s panting drives him even madder. Everybody is having sex but him.

“This is urgent.” Watson understands the situation he finds himself in is ridiculous but he is too worried and angry to care.

“Not now,” Sherlock paces up and Watson hears a sharp cry coming from Richard.

Oh, please, Watson thinks, it could not be worse.

He can’t stand there any longer and retreats to his room as a stray dog hoping Sherlock will come to listen to him as soon as he finishes.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

John wakes up because Sherlock’s knocking at his door. It’s past 3 a.m. he learns looking at his clock. He opens reluctantly hoping that it was just a bad dream and he wakes up now to their old life with Sherlock. But unfortunately he does not. He lets Sherlock in and he can almost _smell_ his recent sex. Maybe he actually does. Sherlock is tired, pretty worn out actually, his hair is a mad mess, his movements are lazy and all his body screams satiation. John is uncomfortable with this knowledge. It was way easier when there was no sex on Baker St.

"What was so urgent, John?”

Watson realizes he does not really know how to start the conversation. Would be logical just to show him the video but he is not sure this is the right thing.

“You see, Sherlock,” he looks away to compose himself choosing words with care, “I came to know certain things. Hard to explain but you have to believe me.” Sherlock is visibly relieved. He suffered the silence between them too.

“The fact is, I think there is more in this case about Moriarty than you want to me to know. And I think Mycroft knows it too.” John gives him a piercing, long glance as if he were trying to say “confess and I will forgive you no matter what.”

Sherlock nods, then stiffens thinking the situation over. He looks John in the eye and opens his mouth to say something.

“John,” Watson inhales deeply preparing himself for the next words, “there is nothing more than this to say. The things are the way they are.” John shakes his head in disbelief.

“Sherlock,” he whispers getting closer to him, “I know you’re in trouble, I don’t believe this stupid story. How could you be with Moriarty???”

“He is not Moriarty, John, he is Richard Brook. This is hard to process, I know, and I repeat you I am sorry, but it’s true.”

Watson closes the gap between them embracing Sherlock, holding him close, whispering hot in his ear.

“Sherlock, I can help you, I can help you with this. You should only tell me how. Tell me what to do,” he holds him closer and Sherlock pats his shoulder to calm him down. “I am really worried, Sherlock, I am really. Please, let me…”

Sherlock almost wants to hold him too, to tell him that it’s gonna be fine, it’s gonna be okay, that’s there is nothing to worry about, even if there is. But in this precise moment the door is flung open and the sleepy Richard appears in the doorway to witness John pressed against Sherlock and begging him to let him do… what?

“I’m sorry,” Richard stares at them as Sherlock frees himself from Watson’s embrace. “What’s happening? Dr. Watson? Sherlock?” he sounds hurt and jealous.

Watson steps up and points a finger at him.

“You tell me what is happening here. How did you get here? In this apartment I mean? Who are you?” Richard looks incredulous at John shaking his head slightly.

“You already know that.” He looks at Sherlock waiting for his reaction. “What does he want from you? He’s always around. Checking you out, standing under your door when we’re together, watching me go out of the shower, in the kitchen in the morning.”

Watson flashes and looks like an angry tomato now.

“I’m not checking anybody out!”

“I’m sorry, you’ve had your chance with Sherlock I guess, but now it’s too late.” Richard’s eyebrows fly up as to say “you’ve lost, get out”.

“What???” Watson looks ready to beat him up.

“Sherlock, I’ve never wanted anything with you. Don’t take it as an offence. I just did not. You’re my friend.” His look is begging Sherlock to believe him, this is humiliating.

“Then why are you always around? Always trying to get between us? Are you having fantasies about me and Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve been friends for a long while now,” Sherlock looks directly at Richard, unwilling to fight but not intended to deny his friendship with Watson.

“Friends, right, hugging in the dark room. I see,” Richard’s lip pushes out, “and then what am I for you, Sherlock? A friend as well?”

Watson stiffs.

“A FRIEND!” he dashes towards Richard with his fists up.

 Richard jumps back and Sherlock gets between them stopping Watson, holding his fists and turning back to Richard.

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“And so?”

“And he is my best friend.”

“Okay. And you let him attack me like this?”

“I’m protecting Sherlock from you. Liar, traitor, murderer, failed actor. You don’t impress me, I don’t buy this!”

“Stop it!” Sherlock yells really annoyed. He looks sadly at Richard. “I think you better leave now.”

“What?” Richard blurts out in disbelief.

“Please, leave, we’ll talk later.”

“Why should I leave if he is attacking me.” Richard crosses his arms and looks at Watson with irritation and anger.

“Because I LIVE here!” Watson frees himself of Sherlock’s grip and is shouting out almost triumphantly, “and you’re nobody, just a fu…”

Sherlock darts him a “don’t-you-dare” look.

“Finish what you were going to say.” Richard’s voice is trembling with anger.

“Nothing, he was not going to say anything.” Sherlock avoids Richard’s look.

“And you? Were you going to say anything? Hm?” Richard’s eyes pleading Sherlock to get close and take his hand, show this Watson that they are together, that this is real.

“I’m sorry, Richard,” Sherlock’s voice almost dies, “I can’t give you what you want.”

There is a long pause and Richard fades in an instant, visibly crushed with the realization.

“Of course,” he pronounces slowly, almost talking to himself, “of course, you can’t…” he looks at them two and turns to the door to leave the room shakily.

Sherlock clenches his jaw. Watson is trying to grab his arm but he is brushing him away. He startles when the door closes and Richard’s steps die on the stairs.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the night.
> 
> Explicit, sad, strong language. Well, you should be accustomed to it for now.

“Sherlock, listen to me, I know Mycroft is involved, I know there are things that you can’t or don’t want to tell me and I know this is dangerous.” Watson is trying to catch Sherlock’s eye in vain.

“Jonh, I’m sorry, I can’t really talk about it right now,” Sherlock is staring at his own feet. “I need time.”

Watson grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard.

“Sherlock, wake up, YOU’VE GOT NO TIME!”

“John, you’re overreacting.” Sherlock pushes him back firmly.

“This is not your doing, John, leave it alone.” The look in his eyes warns Watson but only makes him lose his temper.

“Are you hypnotized? Now listen to me!” Watson advances almost making Sherlock step back.

“No, YOU listen to me.” Richard stands in the doorway again now holding Sherlock’s gun. “John, don’t you get it? You should leave him alone. With me.” He cocks up his gun, his face is immovable.

“Richard,” Sherlock is trying to keep cool and only makes a slight calming gesture with his hand, “put it down, please.” “Please, Richard, you don’t know how to use it.”

“Oh don’t I?” Richard pouts his lips. “Maybe, but I learn quickly.”

Watson dashes towards his drawer to take his gun but the receiver click makes him stop immediately. Richard tsks disapprovingly.

“Nonono, Dr. Watson, wrong move. Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that quick.” He cocks his head to the side and gives him a cold glance. He does not blink.

“Now he’s Moriarty!!!” John is shaking with rage but does not move as he knows now the danger is real.

“Would you please just shut up?” Richard makes a lazy move with his gun asking Sherlock to come closer.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.” Sherlock stares at him intensely really shaken. This is not the turn he expected.

“I won’t hurt you, Sherlock, this is me,” he looks at him seeking his approval, “me, Richard.” He changes his hand and offers Sherlock an open palm. His eyes are gleaming with mad flashes.

“Please, come with me,” Sherlock hesitates and makes a step towards him, reaching out his hand. His fingers get interlaced with Richard’s fingers who squeezes them gently and gives Sherlock a thankful smile.

Watson takes this momentarily distraction as an opportunity to get his arms and point it against Richard who does the same in an instant.

“I can kill Rich Brook and bring back James Moriarty!” he yells ready to shoot.

“Sherlock, now you see he’s crazy.” Richard squeezes Sherlock’s hand harder. Sherlock’s brain is evaluating all the possible outcomes. He gets it and somebody is going to be hurt and this cannot be avoided. He cannot risk John’s health nor does he want to be shot himself. He lifts his open palm.

“Please, stop.” He turns to Richard and takes a step to get closer to him. “I’m coming with you.”

“See?” Richard gives Watson a dead look and drags Sherlock out of the room down the stairs to his bedroom. Barefoot Sherlock follows him stepping cautiously in the darkness.

When they enter the room Richard closes the door still holding his gun and Sherlock’s hand.

“Finally”, he smiles dreamily. His gaze glides over the unmade bed and shifts to absorb Sherlock’s form.

“Richard, please, put down the gun.” Sherlock’s voice is soft, calming. “That’s not what you want. Not that.”

There is an endless moment when Sherlock thinks Richard could shoot him right now. Sherlock feels acutely he wants to stay alive. He feels hot blood pumping in his head, in his whole body, he feels more alive than ever.

“No.” Richard finally lowers the gun and shakes his hand sadly. “You’re right that’s not what I want.”

“Good.” Sherlock is trying to control his breath keeping their eye contact.

“I want you, Sherlock. I only want you.” There is something in his words that makes Sherlock’s heart clench.

“Then come here,” Sherlock’s eyes are gleaming in the darkness.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Richard is just standing there enchanted with the entire scene. The gun in his hand is exciting. Sherlock moving towards him is exciting. Sherlock’s hot whisper in his ear almost makes him close his eyes.

“This.” Sherlock’s hand slides down Richard’s pajama bottoms and grabs his half-hard cock. The same moment Richard feels Sherlock’s tongue licking the inside of his ear.

“I want this.” Sherlock starts jerking him off passionately. Richard is big and pulsating in his hand and Sherlock gets hard as well at the touch. Fortunately, Richard is willing to occupy himself with Sherlock’s erection pulling out of his pants with his right hand while the other still holds the gun. Sherlock pushes him against the wall pacing up, kissing him desperately, biting, sucking, pulling. They pant and move their hands on their cocks. Sherlock goes hard and violent and he can feel Richard is getting close. His sucks his tongue and keeps moving up and down, each jolt feels like an attempt to squeeze the life out of his lover. He feels all his muscles tense up as he almost stands on the tip of his toes. Sherlock gives him hard strokes and his hand aches with the pressure. Richard comes shaking, spilling himself in his pants. Sherlock has yet to get his prize and he pushes Richard on his knees without waiting.

“I could die like this.” Richard is flashed with the fresh orgasm and the dirty look on his face tells Sherlock he wants more. And Sherlock is going to assure he’ll get it. He shoves his hard cock into his mouth and starts going back and forward without mercy. He feels Richard’s hot mouth sucking him eagerly, the tip of his cock hitting against his throat, Richard’s nails getting into his hip, the cold touch of the muzzle against his arse cheek as Richard holds him closer. Sherlock’s last thrusts are desperate and inebriating. Stars explode in his head as he comes down Richard’s throat trembling in an unstoppable ecstasy. He looks down and his gaze is clouded. Richard’s eyes are closed and he licks the last drops of Sherlock’s sperm from the tip of his cock. This is how Sherlock wants to remember him.

He gets down slowly placing himself next to Richard who is keeping his eyes closed smiling happily. He opens them looking lovingly at Sherlock who still has to catch his breath.

“Oh, Sherlock.” He lifts his hand with the gun in it and traces the outline of his cheekbone tenderly, the tip of the gun touches his temple. Sherlock does not shiver, he keeps absolutely still. He leans down to Richard and puts his head on his shoulder.

“I’m not afraid of you. You can kill me. But I will not be afraid of you. I will not do what you want me to do. I will do only what I want to. You’re such an eager boy. The only thing about you is this. You’re eager. Always eager. Otherwise I would not even be here with you now. So unremarkable. I thought I could settle down, like you for real, but the truth is I feel nothing. Kill me and I will still feel nothing. Only sex. That was only sex. Nothing remarkable.”

He feels Richard stops breathing for a while. He stiffens and his hand clenches the gun tighter. He starts shivering uncontrollably and Sherlock pushes himself aside. There are moments of pure fatalism. Sherlock waits with his eyes closed. These could be his last moments.

Very slowly, Richard stands up and leaves the room. Sherlock prays he is not going to Watson. But he actually knows he is not. He waits a second and then follows Richard who is nowhere to be seen strangely. He could not be going up the stairs to John’s. The front door is closed but there is a blast of wind telling him Richard must be on the rooftop.

Sherlock climbs up the stairs in long leaps only to find Richard standing in the distant corner overlooking the street. Sherlock can only see his silhouette well, the darkness is still thick.

“Well, maybe this is my chance to become remarkable. To make you remember me. ” With these words Richard sticks the gun up his mouth and Sherlock startles at this deadly parody of sex they’ve just had. When he pulls the trigger Sherlock stumbles back in shock. His lungs collapse for a second and all what he wants is to rush to Richard who is lying immovable now with a dark expanding pool under his head and hold him but he stops himself. His hearts races, his hands shake. This is what he had to do. This is the mission. Completed.

He hears muffled John’s voice calling for him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock, for fuck’s sake!” he yells staring weirded out at the body on the floor.

“Sherlock, we need to call Lestrade!”

“No, no, John. Don’t.” Sherlock’s thoughts are all stirred up. Mycroft, he needs Mycroft.

“Don’t touch him, John!” Sherlock warns Watson who is impulsively dashing towards Richard.

Sherlock clumsily returns to his room and takes his phone with his shaking hands. He sends a short text to Mycroft. “Done.”

He feels his head is spinning, he’s losing the ground under his feet. He searches for a cigarette with unsteady hands. A quick fix in his drawer. He lights it up and takes a hard drag. Nicotine hits his brain in an instant clearing it up. He regains his fading breath and holds himself still shaking. He is looking at the stupid red balloon Richard has given him tied to his book shelves. Over. It’s over. Feeling like in a dream he reaches out and jabs the cigarette into it. The balloon pops and deflates. Sherlock’s heart is burnt.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long night continues.  
> Very sad, sorry, Watson.

Mycroft’s team arrives silent. They remove the body and all the evidence of what has just happened. Sherlock’s gun as well. They still John who is at the edge of a break down and make him sleep with an injection despite his protests. When they enter Sherlock’s bedroom to take away Richard’s possessions they find him sitting on the floor looking blankly at the wall. He turns his head slowly to face Mycroft who meets his gaze with difficulty. They remove the bed sheets, take out Richard’s clothes, his things from the bathroom.

“We need to remove all biological traces, sir.” One of Mycroft’s members of stuff reports. Mycroft looks questioningly at Sherlock whose face turns into a grimace of hatred. He knows what they imply.

“Then you’ll have to burn down this place.” Sherlock rises his chin audaciously.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighs.

Sherlock stands up and leaves the room as the team starts x-raying the surfaces in search of DNA traces. Mycroft follows him in the living room.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock…”

“No, you’re not.”

Mycroft rubs his forehead tiredly.

“It’s almost over, Sherlock, just one last effort.”

Sherlock gives him the most hateful look he is capable of. He clenches and unclenches his fist.

Sherlock closes his eyes, he’d like to disappear right now.

 

It’s past 6 a.m. when they finish and leave. Sherlock almost dozes in the living room but the headache is just unbearable and the images popping up on the inside of his eyelids prevent him from falling deep down into his blurred dream. Richard’s (Moriarty’s?) voice calls him from the distance.

“Come with me, Sherlock.” Moriarty standing on the edge of the abyss wearing a black coat reaches out for Sherlock’s hand who finds himself standing just a step away completely naked. Moriarty pulls his hand and lifts one foot balancing over the dangerous void. He is looking at Sherlock with hope, with a tender request. “Come with me, Sherlock.” Sherlock looks down in the black nothing and steps up. The moment their feet part with the ground feels like flying and before he knows this is the end he feels genuinely happy.

 

Watson wakes up with a thrumming head and it takes him a while to make his body move the way he wants it to. He first has a hard time remembering the events of the past night but when he does he wishes he did not. Moriarty (John is sure that was Moriarty, no Richard Brook could have that mad, oily gaze) threatening him with a gun and then pulling Sherlock down the stairs to do what? Kill him? Make him agree to something he does not want to do? Hardly sex as it has never been an issue. A lovesick armed psychopath only needing to talk. Blowing his brains out on the rooftop. Their rooftop. Watson suddenly feels so angry. This scum has poisoned everything around. All the rooms, the bathroom, even the rooftop. He’s been everywhere, his fingerprints are all over the place.

John presses his palms over his eyes and prays it all were just a bad dream. But it is not. He brings himself to go down and make himself a coffee but first he needs a splash of cold water in his face. He goes down the stairs and every step feels like a heroic deed. He can hear no sound coming from anywhere. Sherlock could still be asleep or he could have left with Mycroft.

“Sherlock!” John calls but gets no answer.

He pulls the bathroom door handle but the door is closed. He knocks and calls out again “Sherlock!”. No reply. He knocks harder. Has he fallen asleep in there? After such a night he could have but hardly in the bathroom.

“Sherlock! Open the door!” Watson yells punching the door. It shakes and Watson’s heart hits against his chest in heavy pushes. With the edge of his hurt mind he perceives there is something wrong, he actually knows what’s happened but he can’t believe it. He runs up to his bedroom to get his gun and rush down again to shoot the door lock. When he pushes the door open it stops halfway. What he sees the moment after makes his feet go cold and his legs flex involuntarily like as if he were a ragdoll. He slides down the wall numb. He can see Sherlock’s hair and a hand tucked under his face lying in a pool of white foam with reddish traces of blood in it. He throws himself forward to fall on his knees and push Sherlock away to get to him through the narrow door opening. He lifts his head, lifeless but still warm. His eyes are shut, his mouth is full of white stuff, the veins on his neck are clearly visible, blue and swollen. He pats him on his cheeks “Sherlock, Sherlock!”. No reaction. Moving like a machine Watson checks his pulse not feeling his own any longer. He tries to stimulate Sherlock’s heart pushing his trembling hands against Sherlock’s still chest, he tries to inhale life back into him pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s “Sherlock, please, don’t, please, don’t…”, he repeats it over and over again with no result, his knees hurt against the tile floor and his trousers get damp with Sherlock’s death vomit. After several minutes of useless manipulations he sits back and looks at Sherlock’s body stilled forever. He does not feel his own face. He does not know how he lifts himself up and drags his feet to the living room searching for Sherlock’s phone to call Mycroft. His fingers go numb as he holds the phone waiting for Mycroft to answer and his eye catches sight of Sherlock’s laptop and the article left open attracts his attention.

“The famous detective turns out to be a fraud and could be charged with his lover’s murder.” In a deep shock Watson reads about the journalist investigation of Sherlock’s and Richard’s relationship revealing the latter was Sherlock’s sidekick in his staged cases. The article reports pictures of them two in the heart of London apparently kissing. Then there is the news about Richard’s suicide and the fingerprints on the gun he has shot himself with.

John sits down almost missing the chair. He is shaking and his body is covered with cold sweat. He does not understand how this news could have reached the press that early, how certain details could have been acquired. There must be someone who makes this information leak and that could only be Mycroft’s people as far as he can imagine. When Mycroft answers John cannot produce a sound, his vocal cords seem to be frozen.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft sounds concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” John finally finds his voice, “nothing is alright.”

“John?”

There is a tormenting pause during which John gets it Mycroft comes to a shocking realization.

“Where is Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice breaks at the last syllable.

John cannot reply, he only shakes his head from side to side and his mouth feels like full of clay.

“I’m coming.” Mycroft’s choked phrase shifts something inside Watson. He drops Sherlock’s phone and starts crying uncontrollably holding his face which feels like falling apart, his whole body is in pieces. This cannot be true, he tells himself, this cannot be true. But it is.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson confronts Mycroft.

He remains immovable while Mycroft’s people remove Sherlock’s body and the mess around it, while they check all the drawers, cupboards, even the fridge. Searching for something, John does not care what for.  
In the back of his mind he is surprised not to have seen Mrs. Hudson but then he supposes they must have found a way to keep her away from Baker St. in these last days. He knows it was not a coincidence. He could bet.  
When they leave carrying away Sherlock’s body Watson cannot bring himself to watch this scene. His body is cold, almost like Sherlock’s must be. Only Mycroft stays, his tall figure hanging over John sitting in his chair numb. Immaculate, as usual. He only stared in shock at his brother’s dead body but did not say a word, only the dry commands to his people. Watson would like to punch him in the face, see him cry and break down just like he should be but his whole nervous system is too overloaded right now to make his body move.  
They have read the article too and removed the laptop. Could anything be done to restore Sherlock’s reputation, Watson would do this. He does not believe these lies. He never will.  
“I should not have left him alone with Moriarty,” he tells himself, “I should not have left him. Let him… I should not have to…”  
“It’s not your fault, John.” Mycroft is trying to make his words sound as soft as he can. Only then Watson realizes that he must have been rambling aloud. He feels like waking up slowly. His heart is pumping blood through his veins, his muscles twitch in pain.  
“No,” John is pointing his shaking finger at him, “this is YOUR fault!” he can’t help yelling. “You’ve done it, with your hands, you have dragged Sherlock into this. I know this is your dirty game.” John’s voice gets dangerously low. “I know things about you, I’ve seen what you’re doing in your spare time.” A malicious grin touches his lips. “I know about the Woman.” His whisper is getting straight to Mycroft’s heart. He is trying to keep his cool but he can feel blood rushes down his neck leaving his face white and his ears get tapped.   
“I don’t know what you are ta…”  
“OH SHUT UP!” John’s neck is tensed and he looks like a bull ready to attack in this moment standing up and going towards Mycroft who is trying to stay still despite the shrinking distance between them. “Or shall I show you?” he hisses menacingly.   
Mycroft swallows hard and inhales sharply. This was not planned.  
John gets really close and Mycroft feels waves of rage spreading around him.  
“I know about Moriarty. And I know you are involved.”  
Mycroft opens his mouth to tell him something but is stopped by John’s hand pushing him towards the door.  
“Don’t. Don’t. Just fuck off.”   
Mycroft is too tired to fight, to explain, to search for the right words.   
He just shakes his head and leaves the flat.  
He is deeply troubled by John’s reaction and he knows this is too much. Too much also because of the unforeseen circumstances which have arisen and he knows whose responsibility this is and who will pay for it. Now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Irene.  
> Non-consensual sex and violence. You may want to skip this chapter.

Mycroft enters Irene’s rooms without knocking. Kate lets him in as she always does. Irene is a little surprised to see him but her mocking tone tells him she could see this coming. Could see him coming.  
“Mr. Holmes, what a pleasure.” She is not completely dressed yet in this hour only wearing a silk slip and a lace robe. Though her make up is done her hair is still in loose locks.  
“Hardly.” Mycroft closes the door and locks it which gains him a questioning look from the Woman.  
“Let me remind you we have no appointment today.” Irene sits in front of her mirror and pins her hair up to put on her earrings. “Sorry to tell you, I have to leave soon. Leave the country actually. So please, let us spare long goodbyes. I always get so sentimental.” She shrugs her shoulders dramatically.  
Mycroft gets closer and leans down to whisper in her ear. His eyes are cold, his mouth is tensed.  
“I know what you’ve done, bitch.” He grabs her hair yanking her head back hard making her gasps with surprise and pain. He knows she has an alarm button under her mirror and stops her hand immediately as she tries to move it pulling her down on the floor and gripping her whip lying across the toilet table. “I thought I could count on you but you have fucked it all up with that Irish bastard.”  
“Kate!” she yells fighting desperately giving him kicks and trying to scratch his face.  
Mycroft clenches the whip harder.  
“You try to call for help once again and I will assure you they won’t recognize you when they get here.” He raises the whip threateningly aiming her face.  
A pure terror floods Irene’s eyes.  
“No, not the face, please, no.” He knows even having her like this begging he cannot be sure there is no trap.  
“What then? You choose.” He watches her shaking and finds some disgusting pleasure in it. The tension of the last days builds up to its climax in him asking for release.  
“You, whores, only have your face and your holes. This is what you are.” He hisses pulling her hair harder, winding it around his fist.  
Irene is pale with fear. She is not accustomed to seeing him like this, sadistic and bitter.  
“You did not need to involve Watson. That was your big, huge mistake. If only you had any hint of intelligence you’d known you should not have done this.” He drags her towards her bed despite her vain attempts to resist.  
“That was not me. I have not decided that. That was Moriarty!” he gives her a harsh kick making her pace up.  
“You could have chosen to stay with me.” He pushes her on the bed straddling her thighs with his body closing in on her.  
“You disgust me! All of you!” she manages to scratch his neck at last and is immediately slapped across her face, the hit sends her lipstick smeared over her cheek. “The only one is Sherlock. And look what you’ve done to him!”  
Irene fights but she is too light to do anything against Mycroft. There is a primal tremor in her stomach as she feels helpless when his hand gets between her legs and pushes her panties aside.  
He puts the tip of the whip handle against her vagina and shoves it inside blocking her with his free hand covering her mouth. He is much bigger than her and rage makes him stronger than usual. Her hips startle and she tries to close them but he easily keeps them opened with his arm and shoulder. He watches her expression as the handle gets inside and he feels her teeth on his palm. A muffled sob goes out as he pushes the handle up to the hilt and yanks it back. It clearly hurts and Mycroft wants to see pain on her face. But there is something else in her eyes. A dare, dark hatred and a strangely underlying excitement. He flicks his thumb over her clit making her shiver and he feels he’s getting hard. He moves the handle up and down enjoying her contorted expression. She must be dry and the friction is ripping the tender mucosa as he goes. She wriggles and twitches on the bed and seeing her body breaking down like this makes him even harder. He wants to see blood, he wants to taste her tears, he wants to stuff her with his sperm.  
He keeps going and seeing her eyes getting wet turns him on in a weird fashion. How come he has never asked to be the dominant, not the dominated one.  
“I will make you pay for this,” Irene sobs, “I can frame you with the things that would make your blood freeze. I have your DNA samples!”, she bites him harder as tears run down her temples. Mycroft feels something warm dripping on his hand and is satisfied to learn this is blood when he looks down at his fist between her legs. He pulls out the handle off Irene leaving smears of red on her inner thighs. He opens his trousers and takes his now standing up cock in his hand.  
“Then get some more.” He feels hell’s fire burning inside him, all the pain and bitterness and disappointment, he pushes it inside her with his hard swollen prick.  
She whimpers and cries and shakes as he starts thrusting wrapped up in her heat, sore and wet with blood. This is what they are about. Sex and blood and the domination game. He feels her body surrender and as the acute shots of pleasure spread all over his body he is tempted to kiss her, to caress her, like a true lover. He knows she can still hurt him, bite him, do something that will make him even madder. He pushes hard in long thrusts, the sense of her hot inside drives him ecstatic, he can feel the tingle of a close release dancing down his spine. He moves his fingers in her hair, tearing at her locks.  
“You should have known whom you stick with,” he leans down to whisper in her ear, “you should have remembered who has pulled you out of that cloaca years ago. Gave you everything. Money, power, your fancy life. And this is your gratitude.” He pushes quicker now, his pubic bone hits hard across her clit. He is vaguely aware of the absurd pleasure she might be proving, torn between pain and stimulation. But he does not really care about her know. He only needs to come. And he does. An epic shot at the very epicentre of her torn inside makes him momentarily lose his grip on her mouth and she uses this moment to spit in his face right when he shoots his load. He uses her robe to clean his face and withdraws a little shakily. Irene does not move splayed out on the bed, her chest goes up and down slowly. Mycroft cleans his cock with paper tissues and tosses them on the floor. Sperm and blood. The liquids of life mixed up between two people who do not feel alive in this moment.  
Mycroft would like to say he is sorry but he is not.  
“You should have known better.” And he leaves.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

Sherlock feels like he has a massive hangover and was beaten up by a gang. After a long internal lavage and a total check up here he is standing under the shower in one of Mycroft’s secret locations. The hot water hits his head ready to explode and sooths his aching muscles. The substances Molly gave him to stage his suicide are relatively harmless but the consequences of their usage are pretty harsh.

If only there was any substance to make him forget everything.

His own hands gliding along his body as he is washing himself take him back. He closes his eyes as the warm palms massage his chest.

Richard is standing behind him coating his body with soap foam. The touch of his erection against Sherlock’s bottom teases him. His whole body is relaxed after the recent orgasm. Richard has sucked him so well, his tongue licked him so hotly. Perfect, that felt perfect. Richard’s palms go down Sherlock’s belly coating it with white little bubbles, hot water runs down his limbs and back and Richard’s body pressed against him. Sherlock takes the soap bar and makes it twist in his hands producing strangely filthy sounds. Or is it Sherlock’s imagination heated up by Richard’s soft hands fondling his balls? Sherlock stretches out his hand back to stimulate Richard’s impressive erection. Sherlock enjoys the sensation of his lover’s hard flesh twitching a little in his fist, slick and hot and wanting. Richard kisses his shoulder, biting just a little, only to tease, playing like a labrador pup. Sherlock tilts his head back and basks in this perfect moment. When Richard shifts his hands on Sherlock’s arse to cup his buttocks and massage them, Sherlock props his both hands against the wall, leaning down and pushing his hips back to get closer to Richard. Richard strokes his arse cheeks spreading them a little with open palms covering them with hot foam and this touch makes Sherlock’s balls tighten. Richard’s thumbs run accidentally across Sherlock’s hole just teasing its rim and making Sherlock moan softly. He moves his hips invitingly waiting for more. Richard does not disappoint him spreading a generous amount of thick foam all over his arse, balls and cock, his touch electrifies Sherlock and pleasure blooms over his groin. He feels the pressure of the tip Richard’s cock against his entrance and exhales slowly. Richard covers his back and shoulder with light kisses, his hands caress his stomach.

“Okay,” Sherlock nods approvingly confirming he is ready. Richard pushes just an inch inside and Sherlock feels the exciting tickling at his inner edge. It burns a little and the feel of slick warm foam coating Richard’s prick as well makes him startle with pleasure. He exhales with each further push and opens slowly to take in Richard’s cock. His loving fondling all across his chest and stomach makes Sherlock so grateful. He could fuck him and be fucked forever like that, mind free and body loose, closed together in this private space filled with steam.

As Richard gets completely in the pressure builds up and Sherlock feels his own muscles pulse around the hard cock inside him. That’s a sweet torture as he is tempted to expel it but wants it to move inside him at the same time. Richard moves his hips holding his cock still inside Sherlock only to make their balls touch with a soft pat. This slightest stimulation sends Sherlock moaning deep in his throat. Richard bends over him pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder blade and his wet hair tickle Sherlock’s skin. He feels Richard’s hot pushes as he goes in and out just inches letting Sherlock adjust to his tempo. With each move Sherlock feels the sensitive spot inside him gets swollen and more responsive. He controls his breath and feels he is relaxed now allowing Richard go back and forward freely. Richard straightens up again and goes harder and quicker. The sound of their wet bodies slapping against each other in these thrusts is pure porn. Richard grabs Sherlock’s hips giving him a smack on his arse and fucks him with resolution. Each push makes Sherlock shiver and startle and his erection rises and jumps up with each thrust. Their moans mix and Sherlock’s hands slip against the wet tiles. Richard hammering him almost makes his head bang against the wall. He feels his balls are hard now and pulled up. He is still quite empty after the previous orgasm but when Richard sways his hips while thrusting Sherlock cries out and happy panting behind him tells him Richard is about to come. He does indeed after few pushes spilling his hot thick semen inside Sherlock who takes it eagerly. He feels the body of his lover trembling in the last seconds of his release and this gives him absolute, pure satisfaction.

Richard withdraws slowly and helps Sherlock stand up fully. His head is spinning a little and he props himself up the tiles tangled with Richard in a sweet embrace kissing him slowly. Their eyes are closed and they need no words. Richard takes Sherlock cock and teases it playing with the hair at the base. Sherlock is not that wound up as he was some minutes before. He is still open and can feel the imprint of Richard cock inside him, the sperm leaking out of him and going down his thighs makes him shiver involuntarily. Richard gives him lazy strokes and goes down to kiss his chest. Sherlock caresses his black hair, holds him close. When Richard lifts his head for a kiss Sherlock traces his lips over his eyelids, eyebrows, cheeks, chin to finally find his mouth and brush his tongue against Richard’s tongue. He comes after some time, this orgasm is more muted compared to the first one but it is tender and he feels truly close to his lover in this moment. He does not care if it ends, he does not want to think about the reasons and circumstances that brought them here and about who they really are. He just wants to stay like this kissing this man he can never decipher and can never reject.

 

“Time to leave the country, Sherlock”, Mycroft looks at him almost tenderly. Sherlock seems not to notice it, absorbed in his thoughts. His face is sharper than it used to be. His hands are cold. Mycroft knows he needs a fix now that there is nothing that can keep him clean. He probably has not eaten anything in the last 48 hours. Mycroft has already arranged a mission for him. He knows this is the only way to make him resist. His whole form looks like made of paper, thin and fragile. His eyes are like cold ash, no fire in them.

He slips into the car waiting for him, the leather of the seat is cool against his cheek as he closes his eyes.

He tries to get away from Mycroft as far as he can on his seat.

“You have done a great thing, Sherlock”, Mycroft feels the urge to hug him but he knows he would never be allowed to, “it will all come to you with time. You will see it was the right thing to do.”

Sherlock’s heart aches. The vague memory of Richard’s longing touch, his voice whispering “Good night” for the last time, the feel of his body pressed against Sherlock’s. Moriarty, that was Moriarty. He took him, spilt himself inside Sherlock, poisoned his heart, stirred his brain. Did he really want his death after that? Did he really want him to disappear like that? Couldn’t they just continue that mindfucking game with no winner?

And now he’s all alone.

 _Don’t get involved, Sherlock, don’t get involved._ He should have overdosed for real. What could possibly be worth staying alive after that?

Watson’s eyes when he looks at Sherlock from the doorway, sad and asking for a miracle, asking him to be a hero. Friendship, the thrill of Moriarty’s game. All gone. Nothing stirs Sherlock anymore.

The thought of John, crashed and disappointed, maybe one day he could restore the contacts with him. This is the only thing that could be worth it. To know John’s ok. To watch him from the distance of many miles, only to be sure he is doing fine.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock’s voice comes from the very depth of his tired soul, “take care of John, will you?”

Mycroft would give anything to be able to take this pain away from Sherlock. Sherlock’s burden does not amuse him any longer, nothing left of the tender boy he used to be. But he is alive. This is the most important thing. And Mycroft has two years to arrange things better, to assure Sherlock’s safety in a lot more ways than he did before.

“Of course, Sherlock”, Mycroft clutches his hands trying to control his voice, “I’d do anything… for you”. He wishes Sherlock knew he means it. But he doubts this could ever happen.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

_Some days after Sherlock’s departure._

Moriarty is standing in front of the same pond at the Regent’s Park. This is is the old same him, posh and noncaring, dazzlingly attractive in his classic shades and a new charcoal suit.

“So he thinks I’m dead.”

“You are dead if you try to approach him, I would not stop this time.” Mycroft sounds calm, he knows there cannot be any other chance he lets Sherlock suffer that much.

“Would let it burn for your little brother. You know what happens if you eliminate me. Sherlock obviously does not that’s why he believed he could.”

“You’ve got what you wanted, now respect the deal.”

“Oh, respect, deal. So boring. Isn’t anarchy much better? You, king’s knights, are so tedious. Always in control. Sherlock has let go and see how much he liked it. I knew he did not need to act. He lived it.”

“Sex you mean. Sex is nothing.”

“Oh is it? You think body is detached and your head can go alone? Let me tell you, you’re wrong. That’s why Irene got you so easily.”

“She’s out of the scene now.”

“Is she still alive? Or have you already thrown her to your dogs?”

Mycroft does not reply.

“Anyway, that was not just sex between me and Sherlock.”

“Of course it was only just sex.”

“How would you know?”

Mycroft feels it hurts deep inside. Sherlock’s eyes when he saw Richard’s dead body. His numb movements, the utter shock and what was it, grief, regret?

“Don’t you think he believed all that nonsense about the double personality only because he wanted to? He wanted to believe this is possible, that we could be together. In this contorted, fucked up way but together. At least for some time.” Mycroft cannot read Moriarty’s eyes behind his aviators.

“Then I believe you wanted this too.” Moriarty chuckles as if to say “oh, please”.

“I’ll let you guess. You have some time now to do so. Hope you’ll figure it out before we meet again.”

“Two years. If you still live.”

“Oh, I will.” Moriarty laughs visibly pleased.

Mycroft turns away letting him know the conversation is over. But before he does he cannot resist a question.

“By the way, how did you know Sherlock would accept the conditions?”

“Irene told me he needed it for a long while. She came close to crossing his line but she could have never succeeded. She did not know Sherlock’s soft spot.”

“What’s this?” Mycroft is all ears.

“Ordinary people, ordinary life. He says he despises it but he craves it secretly. You know if you had let him play with others he would have grown one of those unremarkable tedious people. But he is none which is good because otherwise how would I enjoy playing with him?”

“And you?” Mycroft’s face changes slightly, a villain smile curving his thin lips.

“What about me?” Moriarty puts his hands into the pockets of his coat and thrusting them out.

“Why did you need all this drama? This is Sherlock’s addiction as far as I can judge.”

“Not the only one, let me tell you.” Moriarty flashes a large grin at him and Mycroft tries to stop himself from wondering what exactly he means.

“Seriously, Jim.” Moriarty shivers visibly at his name. “Why did you need this? There were better ways to put it.”

“Better ways than staging a double suicide? A double personality for a double suicide, don’t you think this is just perfect. And that little John has had his life spiced up a bit. You should have seen his face!” Moriarty is happy as a child.

“I did.” Mycroft reminds him grimly.

“Okay, if you really want to know, I just have not been admitted to my school drama club. Had to take my revenge.” Moriarty gestures as if holding the gun ready to blow his brains out.

Mycroft straightens his gloves, his right palm is still covered with bruises under it.

“Does not sound plausible.”

“That’s all what you get.” Moriarty shrugs his shoulders and buttons up his coat. Mycroft gives him last long glance and heads towards the car waiting for him at the gate.

Moriarty waits until his figure disappears and then lingers about just for a while absorbed in his thoughts. Before he walks away he takes a blue scarf out of his pocket and ties it around his neck. It still vaguely smells like Sherlock. Moriarty is intended to keep it until they meet again. And he knows they will.

He takes off his phone and takes a selfie where only his scarf and the coat can be seen and sends it off.

Sherlock’s phone vibrates on his night table. He is on the mission and has only 2 hours of sleep left. It’s past 3 a.m. when he gets the message. He opens the enclosed picture and stares at it for a long while. Then he lies back on the bed and passes his thumb over the phone display in a slow caress. His eyes are staring at the dark ceiling above him. He feels his lungs get a full gulp of air and he suddenly feels hungry. He smiles to himself. This could not have gone otherwise. The game is never over.


	18. Chapter 18

SOME TIME AFTER SHERLOCK’S DEPARTURE

A redhead visitor sits down in the chair in front of Mycroft. It is striking how relaxed and self-assured she appears. Usually people tend to stare at their feet in Mycroft’s presence but this particular one has no problem looking him straight in the eye. There is a vital, laughing sparkle in her expressions.

“So, what was your mission for me?”

Mycroft scans her for a second and then pulls out of the internal pocket of his blazer a picture and hands it to the woman. She takes it with her simply manicured fingers and gives it an attentive glance studying the face it represents. Rye-coloured hair, grey eyes, gentle lips. She nods in approval.

“When do I start?”

“Very soon.” They exchange meaningful glances of two people who share lots of common secrets.

“Let me know then.” She puts the photograph in her handbag and clacks it closed.

“I will.” Mycroft likes how laconic they are.

As she is grabbing the door handle he remembers one more thing.

“Ah, and Mary,” he makes a small gesture with his index finger claiming her attention, “I think he’d better like you blonde.”

“That can be arranged.” Mycroft cannot see her as he is facing the window but he is pretty sure she has just winked.

 

A COUPLE OF MONTHS AFTER SHERLOCK’S DEPARTURE

“Dr. Watson,” the nurse opens his door with a knock, “seems like we are done for this morning. Fancy a coffee?”

Watson tries to concentrate on her words. His insomnia is killing him slowly. He should see a doctor. Well, he is a doctor himself. But he cannot cure himself. Not this time.

“Yes, thank you,” he pauses recollecting her name, “Mary.”

She nods with a smile and comes back in a minute bringing him a hot paper cup and two bags of sugar.

He takes it and has to change his hand as the cup is really hot and leaves sugar on the table.

“Thank you,” he lifts it and blows trying to cool it down. She props her thigh against his table drinking slowly her coffee. “It’s nice of you to bring me a cup.” He gives her a weak smile. Oh, don’t be like that, he tells himself. You must be pitiful. She looks at him with gentle curiosity. He could not call her beautiful but there is a very appealing warmth about her and he likes the curve of her hip which he has right in front of his eyes.

“I bet there is no one who brings you coffee on a regular basis.” She says a little cheekily and takes a sip from her cup.

Watson is caught by surprise by her outspokenness. He would be inclined to debate but he had to admit she is right.

“Well…” he looks away suddenly thinking of Sherlock. He never brought him coffee but Watson would give anything to have him back.

“What are you doing for lunch?” Mary is waiting for the answer with her head cocked a little to the side. He likes her lips too. Very simple make up, short blonde hair, bright eyes, a light perfume. Her presence calms him somehow. Sooths something inside him. On a very human level.

“Nothing, nothing in particular I mean. I usually get a sandwich.” Watson manages to pull a weak smile.

“I have brought some homemade lasagna if you like this stuff.” Mary drops casually and waits for his reaction.

Watson’s imagination pictures a plate of hot lasagna. He swallows saliva which has suddenly filled his mouth.

“Would be great.” He smiles again, a little more assured this time. “I don’t eat homemade food often.”

“I can tell.” Mary gives him a friendly look which makes him feel a little embarrassed but the unmistakable kindness of her expression lifts him up.

“I’ll be back in a minute then.” As he is waiting for her he suddenly feels the need to breathe in some fresh air. He stands up and opens the window. The blast of summer wind ruffles his short hair a little and he lifts his face to feel its touch. Mary is back with the lunch which smells just too good. He watches her quick movements as she prepares the dishes. She feels his gaze and lifts her head to give him a cheerful smile. He smiles back at her and straightens his jacket subconsciously.

This is exactly what he needs, a hot meal and a friendly face.

Mary knows it and likes the knowledge. She thinks this could be more than just a mission this time.

 

TWO YEARS LATER

Mycroft knows he is not going home tonight after the urgent news reached him. He shuts down his laptop with irritation. He has played this video twenty times for now. The second part of Richard Brook’s commercial. Moriarty dressed as a clown again running into the hospital full of children greeting him distributing balloons with the happy “Did you miss me?”. The next meeting with the bosses starts in half an hour and he has to be really concentrated. He pushes his interphone button to call his assistant.

Anthea enters following Mycroft’s call. She knows he is watching her hips clad in a tight black skirt as she closes the door, body half-turned, so that he can see the curve of her arse and then heads towards him like a lazy highbred cat.

His gaze slides down her shape, unmistakable under the seemingly severe suit and he nods with appreciation. She stops by his desk standing just a touch too close to Mycroft. This is inappropriate but in this fashion he has a chance to notice the slightest outline of her hold-ups under her skirt.

“Sir, can I help you with something?” she caresses lightly the surface of his desk and gives him a meaningful look. Mycroft sits back and opens the lower button of his jacket pushing the flaps aside. Anthea catches his move and presses her lips together making them glide against each other redistributing her lipgloss.

“Prepare the coat.” Mycroft watches her open the upper button of her crisp shirt and he already can feel the suppleness of her breasts in his hands.

“In a minute, sir.” She whispers as pushes his chair aside to kneel down. She caresses his thighs making her hands glide up towards his belt and before she opens it Mycroft cannot resist tracing his thumb across her glossy mouth.

“Hardly a minute.” Mycroft looks down with satisfaction as she opens the fly of his custom made trousers and puts her hand inside massaging him teasingly.

“You are right, sir, as usual.”

She gives him a cheeky smile before she ducks her head towards his groin.

Mycroft knows not much time of peace is left before the invisible war starts again and he is intended to enjoy it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It doesn't hurt me.  
> Do you want to feel how it feels?  
> Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?  
> Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
> 
> Placebo - Running Up That Hill


End file.
